


A Place That's Not Your Own

by SwampSpirit



Category: The Evil Within (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Sharing a Brain, verbally limited character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 13:18:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3174728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SwampSpirit/pseuds/SwampSpirit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the theory that Ruvik escaped using Leslie's body. Both of them attempt to cope with a view on humanity very different than their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Place That's Not Your Own

They didn't listen and he kept trying to tell them but it's all one place then another and you can't find your feet like that, can you?  
And the whole place was always singing so loud; fear of people, fear of fire, slime and blood everywhere and everything just came too slow and too fast and you could always hear him screaming through the whole world it was loud it was loud and you could never, ever be loud enough and when you think it's okay and you find in your brain the little park you used to play in and you make it real and the words untangle and there's a gun to your head because that's what has to happen next because she held your hand and then she put a gun to your head.  
And now he's here and it's so much worse. You just need to sort it out and sit down because there's light and noise and he's moving you, not like people who pull you, but from inside, the muscles and bones.  
_We need to get out of here. We need to change clothes or they'll lock you up again._  
The ground is damp on your feet, little puddles red and blue and red and blue and red and it's just walking first so that's fine.  
“It's fine. It's fine. It's fine.”  
_Shut up. Please. I can't think._  
Where are you walking? He’s got the map in his head. It's better here. The streets are dark and it's quiet but he makes it so loud. His brain isn't like yours. It goes in a straight line, finds the thoughts and then the words and makes them, clear and sharp, but sharp like shards of glass cutting through the walls you try to put up so the static can die down because where do you go?  
_The house. One that's dark. I would have chosen a better vessel-_  
You could not cut him off, not with words. It scrambles but he knows the feeling. You walked to him, back there, when he needed you and it was all guns and yelling and red and trapped.  
You share two things. You share that deafening noise in your head, yours moving too fast, keeping the past and the present and how and why and what all vying for your attention at once while his is focused, one thought, one moment, but the noise is the same.  
And you.... when it comes to people there's this fear. Because they just keep hurting you and he went out and tried to take their minds because you can't be hurt by what you control and you got smaller but he knows that pain and even though he doesn't care about you any more than any other scientist trying to ride out your brain, to use you, he knows what he's doing.  
And it's nice. You don't even have to say how much it hurts because you aren't the type... who can find the words for that sort of feeling. You can tell them it hurts and they don't even ask what or why or try to understand but he can feel it and feel your pain and it silences him for just a moment.  
_Go in. Keep quiet._  
He talks you through it. It's easy for him. Is that what it feels like? Is that what people feel like? He helps you unlock the lock and he doesn't feel the concrete under his feet and the rain on his skin, just light and gentle kisses of it, doesn't have bad memories and wonder about who's sleeping inside. He just sees the lock and unlocks it with your hands and you're in.  
And you're up the stairs and you keep trying to look around and feel around and talk yourself through the steps and he keeps your mouth shut. He doesn't need to keep your feet light. No noise. No pressure or bother just keeping quiet but he keeps your mouth shut, and grab clothes and money and out.  
You want to cry and fall apart but he doesn't let you. He tries not to let you but this isn't his either and the words come out you walk yourself through the steps.  
“Get clothes. Get money. Get out. G-”  
_We did that. Just... space out like you want to and walk where I take you._  
It’s all dark streets and then there’s bright lights in neon.  
_Alright. This isn’t hard, Leslie. We unlock the door again and I’ll tell you what to get. ___  
“Wrong.”  
_I don’t see a better plan floating around that mess you call a brain._  
“Wrong.”  
Your hands are already on the lock because he moves faster than you can think but you know this is wrong you know better, but he’s right. You don’t have a better plan. You don’t understand this one either but nobody is getting hurt.  
You don’t want to hurt anyone.  
_Why? They’ve all hurt us. They’ve all used us. They locked us up so we wouldn’t embarrass them in front of company, they hid our talents, they stole our lives. What do you owe them?_  
“I feel… warm.”  
And again, he understands, because for once, somebody has to. The kind nurses who you know wanted to help, who held you so gently just didn’t have the money or time to stay, to help. The way your father used to hold you. You can feel it in people, something warm and bright and even though you can’t trust them anymore, not after all the cold doors and needles and walls and words, you feel their hearts.  
Your hands place things in the bag. You don’t recognize them. You are not allowed to have many things and it’s hard to look at all those letters and get them to stay in order well enough to make the sounds come to you. You stuff the clothes in the bag too and it’s back to the dark streets and then a grey room that smells like the janitor’s closets, sinks and stalls. You run the water, watching it fall clear down the drain.  
_What is the purpose of this?_  
But you feel the noise die, for both of you. And he looks at your hands looking for the scars but it’s quiet.  
And then you move again, in movements that aren’t yours, smearing foul goop in your hair, pulling you into soft clothes and dark glasses that don’t quite fit, but they are cool and you can feel the air on your arms and when he finally lets you wash your hair, you are transformed. Your hair is dark, and you can’t see your eyes looking back at you just dark glass.  
“Wrong.”  
_Necessary. Now we go to the bus station._  
He tells you how to walk, and it feels awful. It’s not safe. He tells you to uncurl and it’s all undefended and cold and the fear is coming back. There is no monster chasing you. It is you now. There are no doctors here, but you just want to wrap around yourself and smell something familiar and touch the back of the hospital spoons, smooth and showing you little distortions of your reflections, but he reminds you about outside, stars instead of needles, no one pinning your arms or yelling.  
There’s no one else on the bus you get on.  
“Where are you going this time of night?” the driver asks, and you try and move your hands to block out the noise, but it’s there and you need a response what does he want.  
“-going this time of night?”  
Direction. Not just away. Away isn’t a place. You try and think about what you want and Ruvik is thinking about fake IDs and where to hide and contacts and revenge. Thinking of all the people who hurt him, and what he wants to do to them and you want…  
“Go… somewhere warm.”  
_If that’s how you feel, I suppose you have to deal with that first._  
His brain is moving in that neat way of his, what’s open, what will calm you, what do you need?  
_Tell me, Leslie, do you like pancakes?_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to tumblr users airred and lunarubato for getting me into this fandom. I'm only really here for the fucked up smut and Leslie, and one of these two is sadly lacking in the tag.  
> Sidenote: This take on Leslie's disability is written from a combination of research and personal experience.  
> I was frustrated by the characters in the game dealing so poorly with Leslie's verbal limitations and never really gave him a chance to communicate his story, so I wanted to write something that might reflect what he's dealing with.


End file.
